Genius words from the smooth young Mr Broderick indeed. Life has been moving so fast in the Anderson household that I haven’t had a chance to write here for quite a bit. Work’s hectic, being a dad is a full time occupation and in between I’ve just delivered the first draft (how many are to come I know not) of a chapter on chalkstreams for an upcoming book. I was starting to go a little out of my mind as I’m unaccustomed to being stuck in dreary January with no winter trip to look forward to. In a deliberate move to stave off the January blues I did the only thing left to do, took some time out and went fishing.

Trouble is, chucking #10 lines out with 7″ flies attached to the end can really put some strain on your arm. In fact this week I fished so much that my casting hand/wrist/arm hurts like hell. I’d like to tell you that like a certain Mr Smith from the Monnow that my wrist hurts from developing an unhealthy obsession with Kylie Minogue. Alas, nothing so easy to explain or clean up. I guess my casting, poor as it is with a #4 rod has it’s errors multiplied tenfold when faced with a pike rod. Loops don’t so much tail, they gain a life of their own. In fact some of Saturdays casts could happily come round my house later in the evening and rob me while I sleep. Whichever way you look at it, I ache.

Still, I’ve had oodles of fresh air, I’ve blown the January blues away and I fished the Dorset Stour, Hampshire Avon, Nadder, Yeo and Parrett all in one week. I’ve fished with some good friends, laughed and mucked about something chronic. If anyone ever asks why you fish with friends, there’s a temptation to talk all philosophical but truth be told, that’s a load of crap. You fish with friends because it’s a lot like being a kid again and hanging out with your mates. Nothing else comes into your head but what’s around the next bend, or lurking in the corner of the next pool.

A couple of the shots below are courtesy of Graham who writes www.wildflies.com. Thanks Graham, see you for round two in a couple of weeks.

No rant this time, I’m saving that up til I have a little more time. I’ll leave you with a reminder. Stop and look around.

- I’ve removed the youtube link as it did funny things to the formatting of images on the page

There’s loads of things I could write about the year, or how it ended with friends fishing for Pike today. How we barbecued steak on the river bank and drank mulled wine and cups of strong tea made in a kelly kettle. Instead, I’m going to leave you with a pictoral summary of the past twelve months.

Enjoy.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

A beautiful rare day off work. A plan was hatched ages ago for a decent 3-4 hour walk around the wider Stourhead estate. As is often the case with plans however, they don’t quite work as expected.

The day has dawned grey and moody, like a hangover in physical form. The sort of day where a lit fire, not getting out of your PJ’s and watching a movie kept topped off with mugs of tea sounds like a grand idea. Undaunted (or perhaps bloody mindededly), waterproof clad and in a heavy drizzly fog we set off with not another person in sight. We begin by walking around the lake the wrong way, something that two weeks ago you’d have had no chance of doing as the flow of hundreds of feet would have been marching round on their way between toilets and afternoon tea. The pantheon looms out of the haze, brooding in it’s columned glory, unsullied by tourists today and splendid in it’s stony solitude. Behind us the Palladian bridge anchors the lake to the landscape a man made link between earth, tree, water and sky but even this soon fades, lost behind us in a pale eerie sea as we march on round the lake and up the valley.

We strike out of the main landscaped garden following up a worn path, decorated with spiders webs heavy with dew, up through Six Wells Bottom. At St Peters pump, removed from Bristol and erected here in 1768 to mark the source of the river Stour and standing proud like a set piece from Lord of the Rings we take a left turn away from the open landscape and head into the woodland.

The silence descends as we are enveloped by the woods, not a total silence, but no bird song or voices spoil the tranquility today. With fat plops of water landing on our heads, leaves crunching underfoot and an earthy, humid atmosphere assailing our nostrils we are welcomed to the new habitat. Nothing but autumnal colour as far as the eye can see, interspersed by fingers of curling fog stretching between silhouetted ghostly boughs. Leaves fall around us as we walk, colour raining around us like natures own skittles advert. A kaleidoscope of fluttering and whirling leaves, dancing in the light breeze.

Emerging from the woodland we veer West and walk along the open gallop towards Somerset. A brick tardis shimmers in and out of existence in the distance as the fog seems to breathe in and out. An impermeable wall of grey one minute and then a subtle relaxing offering us teasing glimpses of a man made structure the next. We walk on and slowly but surely Alfred’s tower takes form as we near. All million bricks sullen and resentful at being left out in the damp fog.

Dropping off into the woodland again from Alfred’s Tower we head off, down and over towards the village (or Hamlet?) of Gasper. As the woodland thins and we begin approaching civilisation again we hear and see our first humans since saying good afternoon at the ticket office back at Stourhead gardens. A gang of foresters are busy snedding fallen trunks having cleared an area of pine plantation. They offer us a brief wave as we pass on, through the stacks of cut timber piled on the sides of the path and decorated with luminous pink numbers. The stacks smell of christmas.

We finally emerge into Gasper, and to be fair I am a bit parched by this point, out of the forest and into high hedged country lanes. The hedgerows have finally gone over, losing their leaves and colour, donning their slightly slimy brown winter coats. Nettles droop their heads in submission to the onset of winter.

Not having had a frost yet to bring us into season leaves us in a vague ‘between seasons’ stage and everywhere we look the Blackthorn still carries a heavy crop of Sloes, the Holly is bedecked with it’s lipstick red fruit and clusters of the toxic and strangely named Black Bryony cling, vine like, twisting amongst the branches.

Light is fading now and we push on, on to the main road and up under the arched tunnel of the Stourhead grotto. Back up the hill and into the main car park and reception building complex. Just in time for a cup of tea, a slice of very civilised cake and to sit for ten minutes with boots off, saluting ourselves on a job well done.

Day Two: London

A rare day up in the smoke for me. I was asked to give a presentation on historic buildings and climate change at the Royal Naval College in Greenwich.

After a morning dealing with invitation to tenders for biomass boilers, insulation and associated pipes and radiators I woke up, wiped the drool off the keyboard and smoothed out the QWERTY imprinted on my forehead. Stumbling out the door and grabbing my keys I headed for the train station.

Sitting on the 13:47 out of Salisbury I watch the countryside fly past with a clickety click and the odd woosh as we fly through sidings and tunnels. I have a love hate relationship with days like these. On one hand I love the pace and complexity of London, I love the noise and bustle and diversity. On the other hand I struggle with the lack of personal space, the lack of simple manners and the sheer bloody time it takes to get such short distances by public transport. I’m not country boy, like a fish out of water in the city. I spent much of my younger years skateboarding around lots of our cities seedier sides but I do find myself just wondering how people can not burn out in such a noisy, dirty scrum of a city.

In a complete contrast to the day before where for 4 hours I saw maybe one or two other people here in London you cannot move for people. Everywhere you look there’s people people people. It feels like all seven billion are trying to go on the Northen Line. It also amazes me that every single space appears to have something happening in it, something mostly using one frm of energy or another.

Senses are assailed by the noise, sights and sounds of the causes of climate change. Diesel busses, cars, taxis, tube trains. Stereos pumping music from blackened BMW’s, air conditioning units humming, escalators clanking. Rubbish piles on the floor, drifting like snow or autumn leaves in forgotten corners, collecting around cardboard boxes and sleeping bags. Every conceivable space is illuminated and either flashing, flickering or glaring. Can you see stars from anywhere in the city? I don’t know, perhaps someone would be kind enough to enlighten me.

Everything is man made, even the green spaces are manicured and managed to the point of being practically indoors. If I look in the forgotten parts of town, in seedy industrial estates or down back alleys you can see nature gaining a foothold. Colonising. Repatriating. But this naturalisation is the exception in an otherwise bladerunner like environment.

Where does a londoner find peace? At home surrounded by wailing cats, barking foxes (at least this I can understand) and the never ending audible war between car alarms and police cars and ambulances? It’s not that I’m dismissing people who want to live in that, I just can’t understand how they do it without that ability to sit for 30 minutes and hear nothing but the chuckle of a stream as it tickles rocks on it’s way to the sea. You can’t even go into a coffee shop and find peace, here the esspresso machine sounds like a steam train, the piped sounds of Ella does Christmas slip queasily from poor quality sound systems.

For me, the best part of a day in London? Despite enjoying myself, seeing friends, eating out, going to a museum. Despite the architecture, the majesty of it all, the diversity, the sheer sense of things happening around you; Despite all of that. The best thing about a day in London is getting off the train when I get back to Salisbury.

Remember laughter and life, lightness and joy, not death and destruction.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Given the current economic situation and the fact that whichever way you look at it, it’s been brought on by pig ignorant greed by a minority who have gambled the benefit of the many for the profit of the few, I have to wonder what would those men of flanders field make of it all. Have those people who have allowed themselves to become obsessed with ever increasing bank balances and profit margins broken faith with those who laid down their lives to give us freedom?

Capitalism isn’t, to my mind at least, wrong in and of itself, it’s human nature to want more, to keep striding forward BUT there has to be an element of self restraint. I could go out fishing along the rivers here every day but it’d well and truly bugger it up for others so I don’t. Simple manners and self restraint. A consideration for others and an understanding that no matter what I want to achieve in life I won’t tread someone else into the ground to get it. I fish enough to get my jollies, I’m not concerned with maximising my fishing or for that matter, increasing it’s productivity. If I wanted to do that I’d just take a sodding big net and dredge everything out in one go.

It’s back to the question of how much is enough? The protestors sitting outside St Pauls aren’t there because of some idealistic complaint about capitalism, they’re there because we’re now in a situation where the gap between high and low paid is higher than at pretty much any time in modern history, where gluttony is the aspiration of many. MUST-gasp-MAKE-gasp-MORE…

I’ve gone from the bravery of the fallen to the wrongs of greed in a short word or two, my mind must need a dose of coffee or something, but then it’s been an odd day. I stood outside the grounds of the Italianate church in Wilton, an outsider just paying my respects silently as the remembrance ceremony took place at 11:00. I just drifted over between emails and phone calls, but the ceremony will forever remind me of growing up with granny shedding a tear watching the service at the cenotaph in London each year. Memories of loss are daunting, but watching Joe play this evening, seeing his excitement about his rugby match tomorrow afternoon – then you see, I’m not focussed on the loss. It’s the future that counts, the freedom that he enjoys, the opportunities that life is gracing him with. That’s what counts and for that every single one of us should remember and give thanks, at least once a year.

Nobody grows old by merely living a number of years.
People grow old only by deserting their ideals.
Years wrinkle the skin,
but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.
Worry, doubt, self-distrust,
fear and despair – these are the long,
long years that bow the head and
turn the growing spirit back to dust.

Whether they are sixteen or seventy,
there is in every being’s heart
the love of wonder,
the sweet amazement at the stars
and starlike things and thoughts,
the undaunted challenge of events,
the unfailing childlike appetite
for what is to come next,
and the joy and the game of life.

You are as young as your faith,
as old as your doubt;
as young as your self-confidence,
as old as your fear,
as young as your hope,
as old as your despair.
When the wires are all down
and all the innermost core of your heart
is covered with the snows of pessimism
and the ice of cynicism,
then you are grown old indeed.

But so long as your heart receives messages
of beauty, cheer, courage, grandeur
and power from the earth,
from man and from the Infinite,
so long you are young.

~ Samuel Ullman

It’s been a frustrating week at work. You know the situation. You can see things so clearly. You can see the problems yes, but most importantly you can see the solutions, the opportunities and the successes that this could bring in the end. The long game.

The trouble is that people get hung up on how to take the first step, bogged down in the detail of the smallest move. Perhaps they’re worried about the scale of the change that’s needed, perhaps the incessant worrying about the first move is the equivalent of the security blanket.

In other news life moves fast — didn’t get the promotion I went for — Joe’s been playing rugby at school — gave presentation on climate change to CIOB in York — delivered strategy paper — Good friend’s Luke & Dom got joint first in professional category at WTT awards bash (Well done! You deserve it old boy) — Photographed another wedding — Have photos up in Salisbury Waterstones until end of October — Caught fish

Still, onwards and upwards – as the poem puts so well ‘to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul’.

Malcolm

The first of September. Say it out loud and I don’t know about you but I get the feeling that Autumn is almost here. A faint whiff of bonfires and the sound crunchy leaves somewhere on the edge of your senses, like seeing a rising fish on the very edges of your field of vision. I’m up with the larks and leave the house early, there’s not a breath of wind and there’s a faint mist curling off the rivers as I pass over on my way to a meeting in Exeter. The sunshine starts to push the temperature into double figures slowly and spiders webs on the bushes as I pass are decorated as if for Christmas, glistening with diamonds of dew.

The day plods through and by 3:00 I’m itching to escape the confines of my prison for the day, albeit historic and pretty as it is. I meet Andreas on the banks of the Avon and we fish in companionable comfort through the gloaming hours into full darkness. A pint with the added company of everyone’s favourite dour scot, mr Scotfly himself, finishes off the day nicely. I’m home by 11 and zonk out to try to steal a few hours shut eye.

The alarm intrudes at 3:45 and I’m up and out the door in record time. Andreas went straight from the pub after we’d finished last night to manning a water pump at one of Salisbury & District’s still waters which is suffering from an algal bloom. The pumps need refuelling every 1.5-2 hours (I know, I know) so Andreas took the 11pm to 8am shift, sleeping in the back of the land rover.

Being a nice chap I agreed to head over and relieve him at 4:00 so that he could get some sleep before working through Friday.

I’ve refuelled the pumps and had an hours sleep and the light is just starting to think about brightening the world around me. The more I’m up at this time, the more I have this feeling that there is a period between night and dawn, a half hour window of in-between dark and light where the world holds it’s breath. Rather than go back to sleep after refuelling the pumps I grab the rod from the car and wander aimlessly towards the river, enjoying the pensive period, knowing it’s too dark to fish but knowing that at any second life will erupt around me. I’m not dissapointed and like a flower opening to the sun, another glorious September morning dawns, silent, chilly but with the promise of warmth to come.

By 7:15 I’ve caught three lovely brown trout and a grayling of about a pound, all on tiny tiny dry flies. In the distance I can hear Amesbury coming to life and know it’s time for my magic solitude to draw to a close, and time to go back to the computer, time to get writing again.

What a start to the day. A just reward for helping out a friend I believe. By being there, in a place and time I wouldn’t normally be I’ve gained the opportunity to steal three more hours on the river bank. Additional 1′s and 0′s for the old grey database to compute again.

Malcolm

I’m woken from a pleasant dream involving Rhianna and a pair of Simms waders by an urgent knocking sound.

wha’ wh’ whu’?

5 seconds of confusion follows and I’m blinded by a head torch shining through the window. What’s someone shining a torch through my window for? I sleep on the first floor?? Ahhh, wait a minute, memories come flooding back like blood into a cramped muscle. Reassuring but painful. I’m curled up on the front seat of my car in a somewhat crumpled army surplus sleeping bag and my back feels like I slept on a bag of rocks. A cheery face appears behind the head torch and I realise not only where I am, but also what I’m doing here.

I’m deep in darkest Cornwall. I’m here chasing Bass on fly fishing tackle. The manically grinning head torch is Luke. It’s 4:10am and it’s time to get moving.

By 5:00 I’m stood on top of a cliff near an oak leaf sign. The lights of town A twinkle merrily in the middle distance and you’d be forgiven for thinking that apart from the four of us, the world is asleep. Now some may find it strange that some force exists in this world that will have four grown men up in the dark on a cliff top discussing the merits of washing up bowls and ikea children’s stools and their use as line stripping trays. In the world of the saltwater fly fisherman it seems walking around in the dark dressed in rubber with a washing up bowl strapped to your backside is the norm.

Every once in a while you do something that you know will stay with you to the end of your days, a memory that you will always hold onto. I’m threading my way along a narrow cliff path in total darkness, faint moonlight illuminating the seascape far beneath us, rocks silhouetted against the diamond studded surface of the fathomless depths. The only noises are the faint rushing of the surf far below, the scraping of studded boots on rocks, the knocking of the washing up bowl that’s strapped to my rear end and the cursing of Al as he tumbles over roots and rocks.

We fish the tide as it comes back up over a bladderwrack covered ledge, rockpools alive with fish and crabs which dart away under cover as the lumbering humans intrude into their otherwise peaceful lives. Sandeel patterns are cast out, untidily in my case, and then are stripped back through a blue grey sea, glinting in the steely pre-dawn light.

Fish follows fish, follows fish follows fish. Tick Tock Tick Tock. The tides now fully in, the day is underway properly and in the distance we can hear the bustle as life appears and cars, boats and planes make their presence known audibly.

We wander back around the headland and the rain comes in from nowhere, lashing rain, driven by the ghosts of fishermen past. I stop with Graham to have a few casts on a small headland where the ledge drops off into deep water, water the colour of a ming dynasty vase, a deep hypnotic blue, a blue you want to fall into. As we stop a seal pops up and swims towards us, unconcerned at our presence, just curious.

There’s something about fishing those few hours, something that makes you feel enormously smug, like you’ve stolen hours that others don’t get. It’s a magical time of the day, and one that no matter how knackered it makes you, leaves a smile on your face and a memory in the old grey database.

The bass are well and truly in now, and the pull of the sea has me firmly in it’s grip. A few more trips over the next weeks and then we’re into Pike season. Late Summer and Autumn have to be one of my favourite times of the year, but then I’m well aware that I say that about every season. I think more and more it’s the change that I enjoy, the anticipation of the season to come. If it’s a grey and cold February I am undoubtedly looking forward to the joy of a verdant spring, in the August heat (where???) I’m anticipating orange leaves rustling underfoot, wooly hats and warm coats.

Vive le changement

Not so I’m afraid to report.

I find my time increasingly filled and days fly past, memories being filed away in my frazzled brain in short bursts, like light coming through trees onto closed eyelids on a long car journey. flash flash flash.

Stourhead, Dyrham, Barrington Court, Brean Down, Kingston Lacy, Lytes Carey, Snowshill, Hidcote, Killerton, Castle Drogo, Tyntesfield. Flash Flash Flash.

A fantastic week away in Turkey with the family. Flash Flash Flash.

A wedding in Bristol surrounded by family and friends. Flash Flash Flash.

Being a photographer helps in this, recording the odd visual moment to remind me in years to come when the mind plays tricks on me. In-between the flashes if you pay attention you’d probably be able to hear my shutter clicking away, ch-ki-rk.

I got home this evening, having not seen my river for a couple of weeks. I threw some spuds in the oven, grabbed the rod from the hooks above the back door and lept into my waders in record time. I took one extra fly and stuck it in my cap, put some gink in my pocket, set my alarm for 45 minutes and ran like hell. Actually, running in waders isn’t a sight you see every day, it’s certainly not a graceful sight and one that’s best left for quiet nights on South Street.

The second I step into the paddock and slip through the trees into the water time slows and peace descends. I can immediately see where a large tree has been removed by the estate, clear gravel showing like a fresh scar on a suntanned face. The weed has come on well in the last few weeks, although the water levels are desperately low the starwort is starting to hold up a bit of flow. I might even need to cut it at some point yet, I’d figured I wouldn’t have to this year.

A little sip off the corner of the scrappy branches I pegged in last summer registers in the corner of my eye and I freeze, the world narrowing down to a single spot. Time drags on then thirty seconds later it appears again, a subtle bulging of the water surface. Enough for me.

I’ve brought out the 8′ 5# fibre glass rod that Terry Ellmore built for me a couple of months ago and although it already feels like a part of me I haven’t cast a line in a few weeks now and the first cast lands wide, the little cdc & elk fly skittering across the surface as the leader is caught in the ever present grip of the chuckling current.

The next cast lands bang on, I’ve remembered to throw in some wiggle as the fly lands (I know there’s probably a name for doing that but hell, to me it’s adding some wiggle). Drag free, the fly sits for a few seconds before the current gets a hold and that’s all the time it needs. In an explosion of diamond tinged droplets the fly is gone and the line tightens neatly into half a pound of spotty power. Brought to hand after more ariel acrobatics that a red bull air show the fish sits in my hand, unhooked and handled without being removed from the water, every colour imaginable showing in the spots on his flanks, gills flaring defiantly. With a flick of his tail he’s gone, my last view is of the blood red adipose fin flashing iridescent in the evening light.

This process is repeated 3 more times and I’ve only moved 50 yards. Every fish is individual yet somehow the same like river borne snowflakes. Peas in a sub surface pod.

The alarm intrudes on my peace, my 45 minutes is up. All is well with the world, or at least with my little corner of it, and I wander back along south street to the jacket potato and the bath-bed-aaaand breathe routine that all parents of young children know. Another memory is processed and added to the database. Flash Flash Flash.

Someone lit the fuse at work though. As someone very wise once told me, be careful what you wish for. After three years of me banging a drum about things that need to be taken more seriously it seems someone finally listened. Trouble is, now I have to deliver… Doh.

Still, Joe’s broken up for school holidays, I’m off for a week in the sun and in between the work and school run madness that was June 2011 I got some fishing in with friends. Just a brief update here with a few pretty piccies for you really, not enough time or energy for a rant.

To paraphrase Mr William Smith Esq, this is the nadder-diary’s new definition of summer madness.

Peace out.

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